


There and Cas Again

by PenneName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - The French Mistake, Body Horror, Crazy Castiel, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Gen, Godstiel: Castiel as God, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenneName/pseuds/PenneName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Anael visits Dean in a dream with a cryptic message about Cas, Dean has to venture into Cas's mind to save him. Along the way, he runs into different permutations of his friend, forcing Dean to evaluate both himself and Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoy reading this. It's pretty much done, so I'll try to post sections regularly.
> 
> The beginning starts off pretty easy. Some of the later chapters have torture and body horror, so I'll warn for that again when we get there.
> 
> Also, this isn't Destiel, mostly because I'm tired of sex being used as a cure-all for Dean and Cas's relationship, but you can pretend it is.
> 
> Please read and review!

It had been two months, three weeks and four days since Dean last spoke to Cas. Not that he was counting. The last time they spoke was on the phone, and Dean still had the record of the call with the date. Anyway, he’d gone longer without speaking to Cas before, and Cas always wound up being OK. Ultimately. Eventually. In the loosest sense of the word “OK.”

Dean figured he was off brooding somewhere, trying to fix everything and being damn angsty while doing so. But that was the best case scenario. Cas could be captured by angels or demons. Dead in a ditch somewhere. He was, after all, human now. In a bathtub filled with ice, minus kidneys. Bleeding on the side of the road...

Dean tried not to think about it. Cas was a tenacious son of a bitch.

 

* * *

 

Dean remembered falling asleep, but now he was fishing on a pier. He knew it was a dream, but it was vivid and beautiful and peaceful, so he just went with it. There was a tug on his reel. He pulled it in.

He didn't recognize what it was at first. It sure as hell wasn't a fish. It was dripping with thick, black sludge that made Dean's stomach churn. He didn't want to touch whatever it was.

So much for the picturesque scene. While Dean was grimacing at his line, trying to figure out how to throw it back into the water, enough of the sludge had dripped onto the ground to reveal what it was covering. A feather. A white feather.

“Cas?” Dean looked up. But there was nothing but still water and rising sun. “Cas?” He stood up, running down the pier, calling for Cas.

He ran into Anna. He barely thought of her in years. Once, when he saw Charlie’s hair from behind, he had a tip-of-his-tongue moment--who else had hair like that? The answer came and went without fanfare. They had not exactly ended on the best terms, but seeing her in front of him, he felt like a traitor. He had forgotten her.

“Anna.” He choked.

“My brother is in trouble, Dean.” All business. Because she’d always been, at her core, an angel.

“Yeah, I got that. What kind of trouble?”

“Be patient.”

“Patient? You visit me in a dream, tell me Cas is in trouble, and then tell me to be patient? I haven’t heard from him in months! Where is he?”

“Kevin knows.”

“Kevin? What? Just tell _me_.”

“Kevin knows.”

“What are you talking about? Kevin doesn’t know anything about this!”

“Kevin knows.”

“Tell me. Just tell me.” Dean’s voice rose to a beg. Esoteric angel bullshit--who has time for that? The only thing Anna told him is that Cas is in trouble, which Dean could have figured out himself, because Cas was always in trouble.

“Dean. Kevin knows. Dean. Kevin knows. Dean. Dean!”

And then the brightness fell away, and Kevin was shaking Dean’s shoulder and saying his name in the darkness of his room.

“Cuh?”

“Someone named Anael sent me a message. I assume you have something to do with it.” 

* * *

 

“What’s going on?” Sam asked groggily. Sam was fine, better than fine, since the trials. He would be pissed about being woken up, but he could handle being awake at three in the morning, especially for something urgent.

“Family meeting.”

Kevin and Dean each filled Sam in on their dreams. Dean replaced ‘Anna’ with ‘an angel,’ not sure how Sam would respond if he mentioned her. Kevin’s came with homework: an urgent message, but not so urgent that he wouldn’t have to waste time translating it. Dean cursed under his breath.

“She couldn’t just give it to you in English? When can you have it by?”

Kevin glared, warning Dean not to ask that question. Dean understood that spending one’s promising youth hunched over dead languages wasn’t the best life, and that if Kevin would work hard and have it as soon as he possibly could, so he had the decency to cast his eyes downward in apology.

“I’ll put up some coffee,” Dean muttered.

* * *

 

He didn’t hover. Honestly. He didn’t sneak glances at Kevin, trying to figure out how much he had left, didn’t try to glean information from Sam all day. When he served Kevin a sandwich, it was because the kid was probably hungry, not because he wanted an excuse to look over Kevin’s shoulder. The wunderkind worked diligently all day, not stopping for one break, so it was the least Dean could do. Dean didn’t even understand what Kevin was writing, anyway.

“So...I’m done for the day.”

“Yeah?” Dean said.

“What’s the story? What do we do?”

“Um, I don’t know yet.”

“What? Then what is all this?”

Dean gestured to the hours of work and scraps of paper on the table.

“Just...backstory,” Kevin shot a nervous glance at Sam, then looked away from both brothers. “These two characters at the bottom...they say part one of five. I have to wait for the next parts.”

“Backstory. All that for backstory? What, ‘a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away, Cas is gone, who knows where,’ and we have to wait a fucking week for the exciting conclusion?”

“Dean, calm down,” Sam said. Sam looked at him, not mockingly or teasingly, but with genuine concern, like he was about to say something sappy and sentimental like ‘He’s strong. He’ll get through this.’ Dean wanted to smack that look off his face. He wanted to pre-emptively strike him for even wanting to say something cheesy and emotional.

“Calm! I’m calm. It’s just building suspense for the twist ending. Cas could be in Aruba for all we know, so why the hell shouldn’t I be calm?”

“He’ll be OK, Dean.” It came from Kevin, which was worse. Both Sam and Kevin were looking at Dean so solemnly, pityingly--like they weren’t both concerned? Maybe Kevin wasn’t as much, but Dean saw the way Sam reacted to news of Cas, practically leaping out of his chair when Kevin indicated he was done with his translations, offering to do anything to speed things along. So why did they put all of this on Dean? And who was Kevin to console Dean that Cas would be OK? He barely even knew Cas. He didn’t know how strong Cas was. How much Cas could handle. How the first time Cas met Dean, he made thunder roar and a barn shake, how his voice alone could make glass shatter and ears bleed. So yeah, Dean knew Cas could hold his own in dire situations. But he shouldn’t have to do it alone. And he shouldn’t have to wait this long.

 

* * *

 

“So. This part came with instructions.” Kevin said. It was the fifth day of translation, the grand finale. He looked haggard. Dean felt bad for working him so hard but he could rest later.

“You know how to get Cas back?” Sam said. Dean silently thanked him for being just as eager as he was and not trying to hide it.

“Part of it. Do you have anything that belongs to Cas?”

“Anything that belongs to Cas?” Nothing belonged to Cas, ever, (a soggy trenchcoat in the bottom of the Impala) so Cas couldn’t spare anything for Dean as a keepsake (a photograph, but that was burned and not really Cas’s; fake government ID, upside down; a crooked tie). Dean didn’t have anything.

“Feathers,” Sam said. “He left feathers in the car.”

Sammy: worse at hiding his eagerness, but better at keeping his head.

“Yeah. Feathers.”

“Perfect. So basically, we have to steep something of Cas’s in a potion overnight.”

“Potion. Really.”

“That’s the closest word I could think of,” Kevin shrugged.

“So--what’s this potion made of?”

“Something of Cas’s and a few other ingredients. Nothing major.”

“We have everything in the bunker already,” Sam added, and Dean realized that Kevin told Sam more about this than he told Dean, which was nothing.

“So, what’s the potion do? Where is he?"

“So, basically, the backstory from the first day said the angels trapped Cas inside his own head. And they’re...it’s not specific...but it sounds like they’re…” Kevin mumbled something that sounded like ‘torturing him.’ Dean looked at Sam, who didn’t seem outraged or shocked. So Kevin and Sam were leaving Dean out of even more things, God knows what else.

“You didn’t tell me this earlier?”

“Sorry! I didn’t think there was any point getting you all worked up when there was nothing we could do to speed things along. Sheesh.”

“You wanna be pissed? Fine. But wait until after you get Cas," Sam said.

“Someone has to go inside Cas’s head and figure a way to get him out. Again, there aren’t a lot of specifics. Probably walking through Cas’s memories or something. Should be educational. He's old as balls."

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright. So, we're ready to do this."

“Uh...there is no ‘we,’” Kevin said. “Only one person can go.”

“What? Why?” Sam asked. At least Kevin didn't tell him everything.

“He’s weak right now. More than one person in him? It would be too overwhelming. He’s barely there right now. That's what the instructions said."

“OK,” Dean nodded, resolute. “Send me in.”

“Wait. Dean. I could--you know--Cas and I are friends. You don’t have to be the one to do this.” Sam offered.

“I’m pretty sure he’d rather have Dean inside of him.”

“Shut up, smart-ass. But Kevin’s right. Cas and I have more of a--” profound bond “--history. It’ll be me. Anyway, you’ll be more useful setting things up, doing the nerd stuff. Plus, you’re still--”

“Recovering from the trials, I know,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

* * *

 

The glass was filled with a thick, steaming liquid. Dean scrunched up his face.

“So I consume the body and blood of Cas, huh?”

“Just the feathers and a bunch of other gross stuff,” Kevin said. Sam shot him a look. Obviously, the ingredients were so gross they had to be kept secret.

“Whatever. Bottom’s up.”

“Wait. Lie down. In case you collapse or something.” Sam instructed. Dean gave him a skeptical look, but nothing would make him turn back. He sat on the coach, raised the glass in a toast, and drank it.

* * *

 

Dean knew it was hell even though all he could see was a rush of black and red. He could hear screaming. Piercing, inhuman screams. His screams. Flames licking him. More black and red. Who knew colors could hurt so much? His screams were like icepicks through his ears, shattering his skull, and the only thing he could see--the only thing he could remember--was black and red and flames. And then he didn’t feel flames anymore. Instead, he felt every cut, every fracture, every burn, every doubt, every insecurity he ever had. Alistair’s voice. His father’s. Azazel. Failure. Worthless. Couldn’t save Sam. Damn it, Dean!

_Dean Winchester is saved._

And then blue. Pure, tranquil blue.


	2. All Roads Lead to Pontiac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean starts at the very beginning, which is, as it turns out, not a very good place to start.

“Cas.”

 

After the red hellfire, the blue was like a salve. Warm, relief...Cas rescued Dean from hell again. The blue had to be Cas.

 

But then Dean realized it wasn’t Cas. It was sky.

 

Dean pushed himself onto his elbows. He was in a park, with clear blue sky and lush grass, an endless park that spanned as far as Dean could see.  He wobbled to his feet.

 

In the distance, the one thing interrupting vibrant landscape was a splotch of tan coat and and a shock of black hair, standing rigidly yet overseeing his surroundings with a certain majesty.

 

“Cas!”

 

If there was one thing to make Dean regain his sea legs, it was Cas. He ran towards the figure, shouting Cas’s name--probably a bad idea, in hindsight, but it didn’t seem there was anyone else there.

 

“Dean.”

 

Cas was usually emotionally reserved, but this was not the reaction Dean was expecting. But that didn’t deter Dean. He had been expecting the worst--chains, torture, the whole nine, but here was Cas, standing tall and stiff. Even his hair looked longer, making its dishevelment more apparent, but his trenchcoat was clean.

 

“Cas! You’re here. Wow! That was easy. You look good, man.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I was looking for you. I was supposed to go in your head and find you and here you are.”

 

“Dean.”

 

There was something in Cas’s voice--its curtness, its measured tone--that made Dean realize something was off before he heard the next sentence.

 

“I’m not the Cas you’re looking for.”

 

Dean bit back a Star Wars reference. He’d figure as much. This was the first Cas. Square One Cas. I, Angel Cas.

 

Not Dean’s Cas. Not yet.

 

“He’s not...gone, is he?”

 

“You mean dead? No, he’s not.”

 

“Great. Good. Can you tell me where he is?”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Come on--”

 

“I don’t know where he is.”

 

Dean remembered how hard it was to get help from Castiel at first. How it was a lot of needling and wheedling and ultimately a gamble--sometimes Dean pushed too much or not enough or got Castiel in the wrong mood or couldn’t get Castiel at all. How Castiel had to learn to stop worrying and love humanity, Dean doesn’t remember.

 

“Can you help me look? You probably know your way around this place better than I do.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Castiel said, softly.

 

“Please?”

 

Castiel looked at Dean and cocked his head to the side.

 

“Why? Why do you want to find him?

 

“Because he’s my friend!”

 

If Cas tilted his head any further, it would be on his shoulder.

 

“He’s human now. He’s a liability.”

 

“He’s my _friend_.”

 

“Is he now,” Castiel muttered. Dean wanted to punch him. Dean had forgotten this Cas. After all, Cas didn’t show up in a warehouse one day, a warrior of Heaven, flashing lightning and burning out eyes, and the next day hang out in a motel room with Sam watching TV and experimenting with salad dressings. It was a process, one that Dean--and probably Cas--didn’t realize was happen.

 

“Yeah. He is.” Dean said. It came out as a threat: _Yeah, he is, and don’t you dare question it._

 

“Well, then. Best of luck to you.”

 

“What? Come on! I need your help!”

 

“Why do you think I will help you?”

 

“He’s you! You’re not going to help yourself?”

 

“It’s not in my nature to _help myself,"_ Castiel said, spitting out the last two words like the concept burned his mouth. "I serve God and my family, and he didn’t. He doesn’t deserve to be saved.”

 

Dean heard the crack of his fist against Castiel’s jaw before he realized he was doing it. And, son of a bitch, his jaw was as sturdy as the first time he punched the solid steel angel.

 

Except this time, Castiel didn’t move his head.

 

“Fuck!” Dean shouted, torn between clutching his hand in pain and handling it as gingerly as possible. His fingers bent at grotesque angles, definitely broken. Then, his fingers straightened and the pain vanished.

 

“Any injuries you receive here won’t last. But hopefully you’ll remember this lesson: even if I won’t be your ally, you don’t want me for your enemy. Be grateful for my neutrality, Dean Winchester.”

 

* * *

 

“‘Be grateful for my neutrality, Dean Winchester,” Dean mocked as he trudged through Cas’s brainscape. At least the scenery was pleasant, for the most part; at least, it wasn’t macabre fields of death. The park had long since turned into highway, endless stretch of road that Dean was familiar with. He wished he had Baby.  She would make the journey easier. Dean didn’t know where he was going, just that he’d be getting there on foot. Castiel didn’t even give directions, except, “Do you honestly think I know how his brain works?” Damn, but Cas’s self-loathing ran deep.

 

Seeing Castiel reminded Dean that he got along without Castiel in the past, been on plenty of hunts, lived a full thirty years before he turned up. But still, it was easier with Cas. And less lonely. And he’d like to have Castiel along with him, even with the largest stick lodged completely up his ass. Cas or Baby or Sam. He had none.

 

Highway signs appeared at the side of the road with more frequency than was normal. They all said “Pontiac,” with no mile markers. Why Pontiac, Dean had no idea, but the message was clear.  
  
“All signs point to Pontiac,” Dean muttered to himself and, great, now he was talking to himself. So he trudged to Pontiac.

 

All the houses looked the same. Not suburban similar, but absolutely identical: white houses each with two large windows in front, two symmetrical pillars, a porch. Something about this was familiar, but Dean couldn't name it.

 

“Pick a door, any door,” Dean shrugged, quietly hoping he’d find some company.

 

And he did. In the doorway stood a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in a rumpled t-shirt. But this time, he could tell immediately it wasn’t Cas. The place, the house, the World’s Greatest Dad t-shirt. It all added up to one thing.

 

“Oh shit.”

 

Cas’s vessel.

 

“Pete.”

 

“Jimmy,” Jimmy corrected. “Dan.”

 

“Dean, actually.” _Well, this is awkward._ “How have you been?”

 

“I was possessed by an angel and taken away from my family. The last time I saw my daughter, I was bleeding from a gutshot and she was the one possessed. Then I spent a year a captive in my own body before Cas decided that the most merciful thing would be to let my soul ascend to heaven.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve been...about the same,” Dean coughed. Jimmy tried to close the door in Dean’s face,  but Dean held it open. “Wait, wait!”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Dean made sure he was fully inside Jimmy’s house before answering. “I need to find Cas.”

 

“Get out.”

 

“I thought you would know something. If you don’t, I’m sorry, I won’t get you involved in this. But I’m kind of wandering around here rudderless and wound up here. Cas is a good guy. You didn’t deserve to get caught up in all of this shit, but that’s not on Cas.”

 

“He lets me talk to Claire sometimes in her dreams,” Jimmy said. He sagged in on himself. “She can’t tell Amelia, because Amelia wouldn’t believe her. She’d think something was wrong with Claire. Send her away. Amelia’s happy. She remarried.”

 

“Do you want a hug?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Seriously, man. What can I do? Anything.”

 

“Tell me about Cas.

 

“Uh--Ok.” Dean agreed readily, because when someone in Jimmy’s position asks you to do something, you do it. But then he realized he had no idea what to say about Cas. Cas, of the kingdom angelmalia. Insightful and clueless.  Didn’t know how to keep his tie on straight.  “You ever see _Perfect Strangers_?”

 

“No.”

 

“What about _Star Trek_?”

 

“Damn it, Dean, tell me about Cas.”

 

“I told you already, he’s, uh, he’s great. The best. Good guy, too. Always does the right thing, you know, he lives for that shit.”

 

Jimmy exhaled, long and exasperated.

 

“OK. Fine. He can be the stubbornest son of a bitch you’ve ever seen. Snarky, too. You’d think a guy who doesn’t get sarcasm wouldn’t be so damn snarky, but he is. And scary clever. Which makes it weird when he just doesn’t understand the most basic dumb-shit human things. Like one time, I tried to get him laid, so I took him to a whorehouse. I know it’s fucked up, I totally forgot you were in there, buddy, but he wound up not having sex because he told the girl--” Dean smiles at the memory, Cas’s rumpled coat and confused expression. “He told the girl his father left because he hated his job at the post office. She threw a shoe at him. And that stuff I said before, about him being a good guy. That wasn’t a lie. He really is. He made mistakes, but he always, always tried his best. He was...pure. In a messed up way.”

 

“OK.”

 

“OK?”

 

“Yeah, OK. I’m never gonna be happy about this. If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t. Never in a million years. But I guess what’s done is done, and I could have died for worse causes. For worse...people.”

 

“I gotta tell you, you lucked out in the angel lottery, getting Cas. ‘cause all his brothers, they’re dicks and most of them aren’t too bright. Not like Cas, anyway.”

 

“Great,” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “So did you two have, like, a thing?”

 

“A what?”

 

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

The guy spent years with Cas inside of him and asked if they ‘had a thing?’ Dean didn’t pursue it. In fact, he wanted to change the topic, but he couldn’t think of anything to change it to. All he knew about Jimmy was that he had a daughter, a wife, and that the guy hated him, hated Cas, and hated his own life and death. He looked the living room, but it was a shrine to everything he’d lost from getting tangled up in the Winchesters and Company. Claire, Amelia, company picnics and shitty macaroni picture frames. Anything Dean could mention would be either awkward or miserable. So Dean just wanted to leave as gracefully as he could.

 

“I’m sorry for intruding. I thought you’d be able to help but I was mistaken,” Dean said, in a voice and with words that weren’t his own. He tread carefully with Jimmy, using what he knew about manners and tact and suburban, middle-class, white picket fence families.

 

“Wait,” Jimmy said. “If you go back out there, it’ll just lead you back here. Follow me.”

 


	3. Lateral Move to the Future

Dean didn’t expect Jimmy to pull open a secret door in his living room floor, then to drop through the hole beneath him.

 

“Come on!” Jimmy called out, a lantern glowing faintly below, as if Mr. Vanilla in his white picket fence house didn’t have a trap door and a magically conjured lantern.

 

When Dean’s feet hit the floor, he found himself in complete darkness. And alone. Jimmy had vanished, as had the lantern. And the opening.

 

It served him right. He should have been warier, more suspicious. Looked before he leapt, so to speak. But now he was stuck.

 

He moved ahead, the only way he could go. For how messed up and eerie it was, there was no immediate danger. He hadn’t heard any bats or monsters or anything. It was just a dark tunnel in through the trap door of a dead suburban father’s whose body his best friend (whose brain this was) inhabited.  He’d been through worse. Weird stuff was his life, after all.

 

Eventually, the strong aroma of weed and incense and miscellaneous drugs filled Dean’s nostrils. Then, he saw dim light and a beaded door. He knew which Cas he’d be dealing with. Sex-drugs-and-alcohol Cas.  Make-Dean-look-like-an After-School-Special Cas. Dean braced himself before pushing aside the bead door.

 

Even more overpowering scents. And Cas, with his greasy hippie hair and stained jeans, slouched against the wall. He turned his glazed eyes to Dean.

 

“Fearless leader,” Cas said, raising a joint to his lips and inhaling. “Oh, how I’ve waited for you.”

 

Dean wasn't gay, but he couldn’t deny that Cas moved and spoke with obvious sensuality.  Cas had always been rigid, conservative in his movements, unused to the mechanics of his vessel. But this Cas elongated his movements, exposing every inch of limber muscle. Even the way he slumped against the wall pleaded 'take me, fuck me.'

 

“Cas. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

 

A brief moment of puzzlement flashed across Cas’s face, almost reminding Dean of the old, curious Cas who was so puzzled by and interested in humanity. This Cas was obviously well-versed in all the things Cas didn’t know.

 

“Oh, it’s one of these things again. Where you’re not Dean but you are. Ugh, so not sober enough for this. Tell you what. Make yourself at home. Stay a bit. Here.”

 

He presented the joint to Dean with one hand and patted the ground next to him with the other, gesturing for Dean to join him.

 

“Nah, I’m good.”

 

“Come on,” Cas urged, shoving the joint in Dean’s face, “you need to unwind. You care too much. Or too little. I haven’t decided yet. Either way, you need this.”

 

Dean smacked Cas’s hand away, sending the joint flying across the room. Castiel hunched over, bowing his head, and Dean flashed to another Cas--a sad, contrite Cas and a game of Sorry! scattered across the floor.

 

Damn it, you just keep doing this.

 

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean--I’m sorry.”

 

Castiel’s shoulders shook. Dean thought, with dread, that Cas was crying. Cas, abandoned by his friends and family, living in a broken wasteland, powerless, weak... and it was only Dean who could made Cas cry.

 

But then Dean realized he was giggling, and Dean’s blood went cold.

 

“Always so uptight. How about some good, clean relaxation? Let me give you a massage.”

 

Dean stayed silent. He risked exploding if he said something, risked hurting Cas again. Risked hearing that laugh.  Cas continued. “I’ve been told I give good massages. Orgasmic has been used to describe them. It must be my familiarity with the human body. The creation of it.” He grabbed for Dean’s arm, a clumsy, uncoordinated movement. Dean’s first instinct was to move away, but it was an aborted gesture. He let Cas take his arm, even kneeling so that it was easier for him, let Cas trail his fingers up it, muttering, staring reverentially.

 

“Supinator. Humeral trochea. Lateral epicondyle. You fractured this when you were fourteen. And sixteen. And…” Cas closed his eyes and inhaled, either trying to remember or trying to get the words out. “Twenty-three. Bar fight. First two were hunting. It never healed properly.”

 

Dean jerked his arm away and stood up. “You must be starved. Munchies, right? I’ll find you some Doritos, or whatever--I always wanted Doritos when I--”

 

Dean frantically opened the cabinets. The only things he saw were cobwebs and mold, but he kept looking for anything. At anything that wasn’t Cas. Everything about this Cas screamed ‘I’ve given up.’ No, not screamed--whispered. Sighed. And that was the thing about Cas: he’d never given up. Dean had seen him disarmed and broken and hopeless and still able to MacGuyver a way out of any situation with whatever was available, even if there was nothing but his own blood and a wall, his bare hands. Dean’s own personal deus ex machina. Or he’d carve a sigil in his chest and kept fighting until he was dead and even when he died, he’d come back because Cas just never gave up.

 

But this one had.

 

“Alright, Dean, what do you need from me?” Cas chuckled. It was a less terrible sound than his laughter, but Dean could still hear that bone-chilling, bizarro-Cas resignation.

 

“What do you mean? Why do you think I need something from you?”

 

“Because you’re being nice to me. Offering me Doritos. There are none, by the way. Anywhere. All the Doritos on Earth are gone, never to be seen again. Anyway, you need something from me. What?”

 

Dean glanced over at the broken man. It was true, and Cas deserved better than Dean’s bullshitting.  But it wasn’t just that.

 

Dean picked up the discarded joint and settled next to Cas. He grabbed the lighter from the pocket of Cas’s pocket and lit up. His other hand found Cas’s hair and started lazily scratching-rubbing-petting it. Dean had no idea what the motion was, but Cas leaned into it, then onto Dean’s shoulder.

 

“I’m trying to save you.”

 

Cas snorted. “Little too late for that.”

 

“No. Not you-you. Another you. I need to find him and bring him back.”

 

“Oh. So you need something from him?”

 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

 

“Learned from the best.”

 

Dean’s hand moved down to wrap around Cas’s shoulder. Dean could feel his bones. Cas definitely wasn’t eating Doritos. He probably wasn’t eating anything.

 

“Acromion,” Castiel murmurred. “Do the hair thing again. It’s weird. I like it.”

 

Dean complied. Cas's hair was greasy, but he was leaning into the touch, and it was the least Dean could do, anyway.

 

"I can help you," Cas said.

 

"You'll come with me?" Dean asked, a little too eagerly. Cas scoffed.

 

"God, no. But I can tell you a bit about this fucked up terrain. So, if you haven't figured it out already, and I never know with you, you're going to be running into various Casses." Dean let the barb slide. He had teased and taunted Cas; Cas probably learned it from him. But it still hurt. Cas had been so worshipful, so encouraging of Dean. It was a mark of how far Cas had fallen. How far they both had fallen. "They're all going to be moments post-you. Which sucks, 'cuz you'd've seen some cool stuff from Mesopotamia."

 

"Kevin will be disappointed."

 

"No fucking clue who Kevin is," Cas murmurred, brushing it aside. "Or they'll lead your somewhere. I generally advise following them. You can't get hurt here, not permanently, anyway."

 

"Yeah. Castiel told me. The first one."

 

Cas laughed again. "It's fucked up how many of us there are, and that one's such an asshole."

 

"Hm," Dean said. He noticed Cas growing heavier against him. "Weed makes you sleepy?" It was kind of cute, Dean had to admit.

 

"No. I've been awake for six days. Now I'm--" he yawned widely "--crashing."

 

He slumped completely against Dean's side. The actual reason for his exhaustion made it less cute. Dean nudged him slightly. He was out cold, but breathing, snoring slightly. So Dean made himself more comfortable against the wall and rested his eyes.


	4. Mishen Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't really like crazy Cas, but I wrote him anyway because he seemed to fit with the fic. Also, I decided to add The French Mistake!verse, for a bit of lightheartedness before the story gets darker. It's not technically RPF because they're characters from the show, but I did add a couple of references to IRL events (like Misha accidentally posting a Cockles tumblr on his twitter). Enjoy, and please review!

 

When Dean opened his eyes, he wasn’t in a dark, post-apocalyptic room, nor did he have anyone slumped against his shoulder. Instead, he was in the blindingly bright lounge. Aside from the faint sound of the TV, the only thing he heard was a regular scraping. He identified the source immediately: Cas, in scrubs and his trenchcoat, moving between two chairs across from each other. He was playing chess against himself.

 

“Cas?”

 

Cas turned toward him, eyes wide and excited and a little too bright.

 

“Hello, Dean! What are you doing here?”

 

“I don’t know. I just wound up here,” Dean explained. Cas’s face fell; that obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “But--but I’m happy to see you, man!”

  
Cas brightened. “You are? Or are you lying?” Cas frowned again at that possibility. Dean rushed quickly to dispel that thought.

 

“No, really! I’m so happy to see you.” Dean pasted what he hoped passed for a real smile on his face. Cas smiled again. Dean was alarmed by how quickly and visibly his mood shifted. With Cas, the only way he could tell what he was feeling was by paying close attention to his eyes, but usually the shifts were imperceptible.  Now, his emotions dominated his face. “Let’s play a game. You like board games, right?”

 

Castiel nodded, then started looking through his board games, contemplating each one.

 

“Hungry, Hungry, Hippos is very loud. You can’t play it without making harsh clacking sounds.”

 

“How about Monopoly?”

 

Castiel shook his head.

 

“The creator of Monopoly originally intended it to be a critique about the ruinous effects of capitalism, but every game is a microcosmic demonstration of them. Our friendship is already tenuous, Dean. A game of Monopoly would…”

 

Cas’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, troubled by thoughts of his most valuable relationship destroyed by a board game. He rummaged through the rest of his games.

 

“Yeah. Um. I know we haven’t exactly been on the most...consistent terms in the past.”

 

“Yes. It’s my fault. I always leave. Or lie. Or fail in my duties, as both an angel and your ally. That’s why I’m turning my attentions to things that are less fragile. Harder to destroy.”

 

Dean walked over to Cas and lightly put his hand on his shoulder.

 

“I meant, it’s not going to be like that anymore, Cas, because it was my fault, too.”

 

“No. You’re human. You’re limited. I was an angel. I should have known better. Yahtzee!”

 

Dean lightly touched Cas’s cheek and moved his face to look at him.

 

"It's not all on you, not by a long shot. So don't put it all on yourself, OK? We all fuck up."

 

 

Cas looked at Dean with huge eyes, trembling under his touch.  Dean gently led him to a couch. 

He held Cas carefully but firmly, Cas still shaking. And then, all of a sudden, Cas was pressing himself against Dean, desperate for warmth and touch, trying to make sure he was completely wrapped in Dean. Dean obliged, pulling him closer, gripping him so tight he thought he was hurting Cas, but Cas just kept whimpering and moving closer. He reminded Dean too much of a wounded animal who, after a lifetime of abuse, was grateful to find someone who would hold him instead of hurt him.

 

“OK, OK,” Dean laughed softly at the squirming body in his arms, “I’m here.”

 

This seemed to settle Cas. They sat in silence for a while, until Cas spoke again.

 

“I can take you to the next place. I wanted you to stay here, but this isn’t where you’re supposed to be,” Cas confided the last part quietly, as if ashamed of his selfishness.

 

“It’s OK. I’m in no rush. I can stay a bit longer,” Dean did want to get a move on, but he could stay with Cas a bit. After all, Cas had just gotten comfortable.

 

“No, you want to move on. It’s OK.” Castiel uncurled himself, removing Dean’s arms from his body. “It’s the thought that counts.”

 

He walked across the lobby. There was just a plain door with an EXIT sign above it, like in any building. Castiel held open the door. Outside was bright, bright sunlight.

 

“What’s gonna happen to you?” His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the idea of Cas, indefinitely stuck playing checkers against himself.

 

“I don’t really exist, Dean. Once you leave, I’m gone--at least, I’m gone from this manifestation. I still exist in Castiel’s head as a memory. Like I said, it’s the thought that counts.”

 

That made Dean feel a bit better about leaving, but it was still hard to tear himself away from Cas and into the bright unknown outside. He worried that if he gave Cas one parting hug, Cas would cling again, but he hugged him anyway--more of a bro hug: one arm, two slaps, and quick detachment. And then he walked out into the world.

* * *

 

The brightness, it turns out, was filming, if the cameras and moving sets and stressed out air was any indication. Dean manuevered through it as discreetly as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself and how he did not belong here.

 

“Jen! Jen! Come on. Don’t give me the cold shoulder. I’m sorry, Jen.”

 

It took him a while to realize that the voice was calling after him. He turned around. It was Cas.

 

But Jen...Oh shit. He was in  _th_ _at_ world. Which meant this wasn't Cas, it was some weird guy with a weird name. Moshe? Misha?

 

 

“Mitya?”

“Hah! You’re doing the fake-forget-my-name thing. You’re hilarious, Jen. Does that mean you’re not mad at me?”

 

“Uh...mad? Why would I be mad?”

 

“Oh, because--no reason. I just thought you saw--nothing. Nevermind.”

 

Dean’s cell-phone ringing gave him an out. He gave Misha the universal sign for “I’m taking a phone call, leave” then answered his phone. Danneel. Who the hell was that guy?

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, baby, I just wanted to wish you good look at the convention,” So not a guy. She sounded hot.  “Don’t worry about anything. I called the babysitter for Justice--”

 

“Justice? Like, the law?”

 

“No, like our daughter? Justice Jay Ackles?  Are you feeling OK?”

 

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

“You’re doing so much. Directing, acting, the convention...are you sure you don’t need a break?”

 

“Yeah. Positive.”

 

“OK. I know you can do it. Love you!”

 

“Yeah. Uh, I mean, love you too!” Dean hung up, sure he landed Jensen in hot water with his wife. Or, he would have if this place actually existed.

 

“Justice Jay,” Dean breathed, hanging up the phone. “The names around here are…”

 

He looked up to see Misha still hadn’t moved.

 

“We’re good, right?”

 

“Yeah. Perfect.”

 

“So? We gonna do the scene, Mr. Director?”

* * *

 

“I swear to you, Dean Winchester, I will help you no matter what. We will end Cthulu’s destruction together,” Misha stood way, way too close to Dean and he looked far too intense and creepy--so, A+ Casting, but it unnerved Dean to see someone who wasn’t Cas and never met Cas playing Cas, even though they looked identical.

 

“Uh...cut!” Dean shouted. “So, um, notes. Misha. Great, great, great, great. But...maybe not look at me like that?”

 

“That’s how I always look at you. I mean, how Cas always looks at Dean,” Misha said.

 

“Yeah. I, uh, I know that. But maybe it’s not appropriate for the scene.”

 

“Is this about the Mishen thing?”

 

“Mishen?”

 

“That website. On my twitter. It was an accident.”

 

Misha took out his phone, pulled up a website, then presented it to Dean.

 

“That? You had to have seen it, and I’m sorry it made things awkward.”

 

Dozens of half-naked (and some full-naked) pictures of Dean and Cas (Jensen and Misha, Dean reminded himself) were on the screen.

 

“What’s a mayn-ipe?”

 

“It’s short for manipulation. They take real pictures and then, uh, manipulate them. Into these.  Everyone knows they’re fake. I didn’t mean to post the link on my twitter. But don’t let it affect the show, OK? Fans’ll pick up on that.”

 

“Oh boy,” Dean said. He couldn’t help but scroll through the page. Fanart. Fanfic (‘Jensen has a very upsetting character bleed, and Misha is around to make him feel better.’ ‘Jared plays matchmaker for Misha and Jensen.’) Way too many manips.

 

“Oh. Mishen. Like our names together. It sounds like...mission. That’s clever.”

 

He smiled weakly and handed Misha the phone.

 

“You hadn’t seen it before?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re not following me on twitter?” Misha suddenly looked upset. Accidentally posting softcore porn about himself and his co-worker? Fine. Not getting enough social media attention? Crossing the line.

 

“I just haven’t checked it today,” Dean guessed people checked a twitter, right? “Um. So. I think now’s a good a time as any to call it a day. What do you think? Yeah? Uh…”

 

“Actually, if we don’t finish this scene, we’re gonna be way behind schedule,” a cameraman said.

 

“Great,” Dean muttered. “So...take it from the top.”

 

It was a slow, agonizing shoot. Dean kept shouting “Line!” Misha kept asking for notes. Even finishing the scene put them behind schedule. Dean was no expert in filmology, but he knew the scene turned out like shit, but at least it turned out.

 

“Good job, everyone,” he said.

 

Misha gave him a condescending clap on his shoulder. “Don’t quit your day job. But no one watches this show for the acting, anyway. Or the directing. Or the writing. Or plot. So we’re good.”

 

 _I do not like that guy_ , Dean thought as Misha walked away. But watching him be Cas, listening to him say things that Cas would (ostensibly) say, made Dean jittery. Because he wasn’t Cas; he wasn’t even in the same universe as Cas. He wasn’t even Cas’s vessel. Dean wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

 


	5. Annual Check-up

 

Dean awoke to a loud pounding outside his trailer door. He hoped he would walk outside and be somewhere else--wherever Cas actually was, for example. But then someone shouted.

 

“We’re getting ready to go, Jensen! Hurry! We’ll be late!”

 

Dean remembered vaguely something about a convention. He pulled on a pair of rumpled jeans and a random shirt, similarly rumpled, and opened his door. Outside was a woman with a clipboard. Cute, but she looked all-business. Plus, Dean reminded himself, he’s married. Technically.

 

“Great. Your fans will love you in that. Now meet us in the car.”

 

The car was a limo, apparently, big enough to fit Misha, Jensen, and Sam-actor’s Sam-sized body.

 

“Heard you had a good shoot yesterday,” Sam-actor smiled. Dean made a note to find out his name as soon--and least awkwardly-- as possible.

 

“Yeah, well,” Dean grunted.

 

“We all get ‘em, right, Mish?”

 

“Yeah, especially when you’re off-camera tickling my crotch with your foot.”

 

“It’s nothing personal. I’m just drawn to your irresistible crotch,” Jared told Misha amiably. Then, he noticed how quiet Dean was, which he assumed was Jensen sulking. “Hey, really, Jen, it’s no big deal. Everyone has bad days.”

 

“Yeah, I know. I’m just not feeling well in general,” Dean said. He pretended to take a nap, even with Jared and Misha cackling and joking like a bunch of girls on a sleepover.

* * *

  
  


The convention, it turned out, was nothing like the one Dean went to with Chuck. First, the actors’ treatment was swank. Dean got to stay in a hotel room--a real hotel room, with a fruit basket and soft sheets and everything. But he was also very busy, ushered through crowds for photo-ops and interviews. Luckily, he was usually with Jared (that was Sam-actor’s name) or Misha, who were both talkative. Apparently, Jensen had a reputation for being the quiet one, which was good for Dean.

 

Another thing was that Chuck’s convention had been mostly guys. This one was noticeably girls. Girls who would stop him and ask him for a picture, even when he was trying to be sneaky. Girls young and old. But Jensen was married, and everyone knew that. Even though this world would cease to exist after Dean left, Dean didn’t know how long that would be. He didn’t want to be stuck with a scandal.

 

Then, Dean had to do a panel. He was again saved, because Misha would be doing one with him, and Misha would talk and joke a lot, and the fans would love him.

 

Dean was quiet for most of the panel. He wondered if he was being too quiet. Jensen was known for being quieter than Jared and Misha, but Jared and Misha were loud and chatty, so how much silence could Dean get away with?

 

Halfway through, a fan asked, “A lot of problems between Dean and Cas have been caused by bad communication. Are they going to be more open with each other this season?”

 

Misha jumped right in.

 

“Both Cas and Dean have been taught that talking and feeling and talking about feelings are bad, and so they’re not used to explicating their feelings. They imply a lot of stuff; they think the other one’s getting their message, but they’re not. So yeah, a little bit less emotional constipation would be great. But like all constipation, there’s gonna be a little grunting.”

 

The audience went wild. Dean rolled his eyes. Misha had spent the entire con being glib and sarcastic and at times genuinely funny, but of all the questions the guy chooses to answer half-seriously, it’s this one? Dean didn’t realize they were waiting for Jensen’s input.

 

“Oh, yeah, same,” Dean realized that he hadn’t been talking much and that he was getting paid (and breakfast and limo rides and hotel rooms) to talk. He knew the scene they were filming was relevant, so he went on: “Like, we were just filming a scene where Cas promises to help with Cthulu no matter what and, like, Cas is gonna have to sacrifice himself big and Dean flat out asks him not to and then they talk about, like--Wait, is my microphone off?”

* * *

  
  


“Tough job, huh?” Jared asked. After a day filled with photos and smiling and getting chastised for “spoilers,” Dean was finally able to sit back at the hotel and order room service with Jared.

 

“I’ve had tougher, but yeah,” Dean said. “Good perks, though.”

 

“So, really, what’s up with you?” Jared asked seriously. “I wasn’t there at the shoot, but I heard about it. And the spoilers? You know better. You’ve been doing this for a decade. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

 

“It’s nothing. I don’t know.”

 

“Is everything OK with Danneel?”

 

“Dan--Oh, shit,” Dean said, grabbing his phone. Thirty-six missed calls. He didn’t need to check to see that they were mostly from an increasingly angry Danneel.

 

Before he could call back, there was a knock on the door. It was the showrunner. Jared quickly glanced at Dean, then excused himself. Dean braced himself for a firing.

 

“Jensen, I don’t know what’s going on, but how about you take a few days off? You can hop a flight back home after this, get some rest. Bob can take over directing for you.”

 

“Uh--sure,” Dean said. So he wasn’t being fired, which was good, and he could have a few days off at home...

 

He realized he didn’t know where home was.

 

“And maybe see a doctor while you’re here?”

 

“A doctor, sure,” Dean agreed. He knew that a doctor could not fix anything, but he would agree readily to anything they wanted him to do. With thirty-six missed calls from his wife and countless career screw-ups in a few days, he had to make as few waves as possible.

* * *

  
  


Dean sat shirtless on the cold examination table while the doctor scolded him about his blood pressure. This, he couldn’t pass off as a Jensen thing; this was all Dean Winchester.

 

“You been eating OK?”

 

“Same as always.”

 

“You’re usually very healthy. What’s happening?”

 

“Guess I’m not the man I used to be,” Dean shrugged.

 

The doctor sighed. “I’m gonna get a nutritionist in here. You’re getting older, you might need to change your diet. But, like I said, I’m surprised. You’re usually very healthy.”

 

The doctor left the room. Dean leaned back. He tried to figure out how he could move on from this world. Cuddling, talking about feelings--those were all difficult for Dean, but having a normal life was the most difficult thing of all. Being normal in the public light was impossible. Fans were already scrutinizing his body language at the convention, rumors from set already filling the gossip blogs, questions about Jensen’s mental well-being and relationships flooding the forums.

 

He was about to lose himself in introspection when he heard the door open.

 

“Well, well, well, Mr. Winchester,”

He bolted upright. Standing there, in blood-spotted lab-coat, was Cas.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing is off in this chapter. Next chapter will have explanations. We're almost done!

“Surprise!” The manic grinning Cas exclaimed. Suddenly, Dean felt the need for modesty and pulled on his clothes. “Can you guess who this is?”

Black sludge oozed out of Cas’s eye. Leviathan. And of course Jensen was never armed.

The Leviathan snapped his fingers and Dean found himself in Purgatory woodland, complete with a portal.

“Feels like home, doesn’t it? You thrived here. And right there--right through that door--is Cas.”

Dean immediately dashed towards the portal, but the Leviathan stood in his way.

“Hold on there, cowboy. Why would I let you through?”

“Why wouldn’t you? You can’t hurt me, man. You’d just be dicking me around. You’re not even real. Let me get him!”

“Don’t you understand? Cas wants to be here. Remember Purgatory? How he tossed you away and made you sulk guilty for months? He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about humanity. He cares about atoning enough that he can finally die. That’s all Cas wants: to die. To suffer enough that he finally feels he can earn his peace.”

“No. That’s not going to happen.”

“I kind of want to let you through. Cas would be useless and miserable and it wouldn’t be long before you threw him out. Again.”

“Then let me through, and we’ll see.”

“There’s the rub, Dean--only someone who loooves Cas can go through,” the Leviathan said, “which means you can’t. Whatever happened to that Balthazar guy? He’d be good at this.”

“I…I…”

He tried to speak, but he couldn’t say the words, not when the Leviathan would throw them back in his face and taunt him with them, not when the Leviathan would sully the sentiment.

“See? You can’t even say it.”

“If I can’t get through, then why aren’t you letting me try?”

“Because as soon as you try to go through and fail, you’ll wake up. And I want to keep you here as long as--”

A loud squelching sound interrupted the Leviathan. Both it and Dean looked down at the same time. Thick, dark sludge oozed out of its stomach. The Leviathan gave one baffled look, and then it crumpled. And standing behind it…

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t contain his smile, even if it was pissed-off-proto-Cas.

“You always come through in a pinch.”

Castiel nodded curtly.

“Why the change of heart?”

“I realize you do actually care. I thought you would have given up by this point,” he answered, in the bluntly honest, accidentally-hurtful way only Castiel could.

“Well, good! Good. I’m glad to have you along. Believe it or not, we actually do make a pretty good team.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He stared forlornly into the swirling blue void as if it hypnotized him, freezing him in place.

“Come on, man. Let’s go,” Dean said.

“Dean, I would like to...but I can’t. It wouldn’t work.”

And Dean realized that’s why Cas couldn’t move. All of his self-loathing manifested as the swirling blue void and he couldn’t look away.

“Come on. You’re a good guy. Both of you. All of you. You came here, didn’t you?”

“I came for a sense of duty. Of purpose. To help you. Not him.”

“If you can come through for me, you can come through for him,” Dean said, trying to dance around the real issue, the one he didn’t want to think about: that Cas, at one point, told Dean he wanted to kill himself, but that probably wasn’t the only time he wanted to. “Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said, finally tearing his eyes away and looking at the ground. “It’s you he cares about, anyway.”

Dean nodded. He wasn’t exactly the right person to convince someone not to hate themselves. Sam could probably have this conversation if he were here, but he wasn’t. It was just two of the stubbornest, most emotionally constipated bastards ever seen on Heaven, Hell, and Earth. And if Dean tried a heart-to-heart, he’d just wind up quoting more Whitney Houston.

“OK. Thanks for your help, though. Doing this. Thanks.”

Castiel nodded. “I do hope you find him.”

“Yeah. I’ll...see you, I guess.”

Dean stepped into the portal, reminding him of the last time he was in Purgatory, once again leaving a Castiel who hated himself to much to follow.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. God has big plans for that fish.”

He slowly registered his surroundings: a beach shore, with only two figures around. A little boy with unruly black hair and blue eyes. Behind him, an older girl with red hair. Anna and Cas.

“For a fish? What could possibly become of a fish?”

Anna laughed and ruffled Cas’s hair.

The scene changed; now Dean was in an arid desert. Cas, fully grown, sat with a bearded man who was unfamiliar to Dean. Of the three, only the stranger sweat in the sun.

“They are good people, Castiel. They don’t deserve to be destroyed.”

“I know. I will talk to my superiors about sparing them.”

“Thank you.”

The scene changed again before Dean could approach Castiel. Now, they were in a more modern office, which threw Dean, because Castiel spoke of Bible stories. Dean recognized Raphael. Even centuries before their infamous war, Raphael looked at Castiel with disdain. Cas, too, looked at Raphael with disdain, but it was tempered by fear and respect.

“Please reconsider the destruction of Sodom. The man, Lot, the righteous man--he vouches for his people. They deserve to be spared.”

“And who is asking for this? Lot? Or you?”

Castiel averted his eyes. “I trust Lot’s judgment. I believe him. The people of Sodom have done nothing wrong.”

“They go against nature and God’s intent.”

Cas flicked his blazing eyes up to Raphael. “And how would you know God’s intent?”

Dean thought a quiet you go, Cas, to himself as Raphael stalked over to Cas, standing tall, reminding Cas who was in charge.  
“Watch yourself, Castiel. You’ve been on my radar for a while.”

Castiel’s defiant glare wavered. He nodded curtly.

“But I’ll tell you what. If Lot can find fifty good men--fifty men that meet my approval--then I will spare his city.”

Flash--another change--Castiel chained up, bleeding, his own brothers drawing on his flesh with a knife--flash--another change--’You serve God, not men, and certainly not Dean Winchester’--flash--

A white room. Sterile, clinical. Another blast from the past, Naomi, stood before a trembling Cas.

“I will do anything you want me to. I have done everything. But please, don’t make me kill Dean.”

“They aren’t actually Dean. They’re simulations.”

“They’re training for...the real thing.”

“Hopefully, it will never come to that. But even if it doesn’t, I need to know that you’re all in. That you’re fully devoted to our cause this time.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice, Castiel.”

Naomi walked over to Sim Dean and snapped his arm. With a deft movement, she drew a sword and impaled his hand. Dean winced in sympathy pain, but the simulation barely reacted.

“Would you rather leave him in my hands?”

“It’s just a simulation,” Castiel gritted out, but it was obvious that even with that knowledge, it was painful for him to watch.

“You’re right.”

Naomi slit the throat of the simulation, then snapped her fingers and brought a new one into existence. This one was much more animated.

“Cas? What’s going on?”

“You’re a simulation.”

“Huh? Where are we, a hellscape dentist office? What--”

Naomi grabbed the fake Dean, pinning him against the stark white wall. With her other hand, she pulled out a large needle and held it above his throat.

“No! Naomi, don’t!” Cas cried.

“What the hell is this?”

She plunged it into his neck. He started screaming.

“There is a poison coursing through his veins right now. He will die eventually, but before he does, it will be a very long, very painful process.”

The simulation continued screaming, clutching desperately at Naomi for mercy. Naomi then turned her attention to Cas.

“I’m guessing he will hallucinate his brother dying, his time on the rack...there are any number of painful members to choose from. And he will relive them all until his body cannot take it anymore. But who knows how long that will be?”

The simulation crawled over to Cas, clawing the floor on his stomach.

“You are the only one who can give him relief. He is begging for it, Castiel. He is begging for you to end his pain.”

Cas ran to a corner, closing his eyes and covering his ears. Cas, poor Cas, Dean thought, the only one whose torture would be Dean’s torture. Dean wanted to become visible and let Cas know he was here, he was OK, but he had no choice but to watch this play out.

As the simulation’s screams became louder, Cas pressed his ears harder and curled in on himself more, but he couldn’t block them out. And over the screams, Naomi was yelling, too.

“Do it, Castiel! Don’t be weak! Don’t be selfish! He’s in pain! Your friend is in pain, and you’re the only one who can grant him mercy!”

With a strangled cry, Castiel uncurled himself and grabbed Naomi’s sword, plunging it through the screaming simulation’s chest. The noise stopped instantly. Dazed, chest heaving, Cas watched blood pool underneath the fake Dean. He dropped to his knees, letting the sword clatter to his side.

Naomi walked behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Very good, Castiel. See? You can do it.”

Thus began what Dean guessed was the angel equivalent of a training montage. He saw false versions of himself killed until the floor was littered with him. Naomi experimented to find out what would yield the best results; some simulations were cruel, taunting Cas and calling him weak, but this did not have any effect on Castiel’s willingness to kill him. Neither did the sexual simulations, Deans who would sidle up to Cas and force himself on the angel. In fact, the only thing that worked at first was torturing the simulations, convincing Cas that destroying them would be merciful. Dean had seen a lot of fucked up shit in his life, but this was definitely in the top ten.

Eventually, Cas broke. Dean could see the change in his eyes. Before, they had been bright compassion and pain; then, they were glazed over, as if sightless. He killed Deans quickly and efficiently. Even though the floor was littered with his own corpse, Dean was most frightened of the dead look in Castiel's eyes.

“Very good, Castiel. Isn’t life so much simpler now?”


	7. Man vs. God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit violent and bloody, but after this, it's all over!

Castiel crumpled to his knees, staring at the floor littered with dead simulation Deans. He took his sword and pointed it at his stomach. Dean saw his hands were trembling, even though the rest of his body was statue still.

“Castiel,” Naomi said, gently, “don’t do that. You’ll invalidate all our progress, and I’ll have to bring you back and we have to start all over again. You don’t want that, do you?”

Dean could barely hear Cas’s broken whisper: “I don’t care.”

“That’s exactly the answer I wanted to hear,” Naomi said cheerfully. “Now, why don’t you unwind a little bit? You made so much progress today.”

She gently took the sword from Cas’s lax hands and left the room. Cas fell sideways and curled up into a fetal position, staring blankly towards the mess of Deans.

“Cas!” Dean called, but he knew it was no use; no one could see or hear him, but he ran to Cas anyway, shaking his shoulder, grabbing his hand. “Look. I’m here. You don’t hurt me. Come on. I’m gonna get you out of here.”

But Cas didn’t show any signs of noticing Dean. He just let his eyes fall close.

This time, Cas falling unconscious made the scene shift. Dean noticed with dismay that he was right back where he started: the park. Only this time, hanging grotesquely from two large hooks, hung in a large tree, was Cas.

“See what happens when children disobey?” A disembodied voice said. It was Cas’s voice, but smoother, with a serene maliciousness. Dean knew instantly that it was God-Cas. Godstiel, Dean thought sardonically. “You finally made it. I hope you enjoyed the trip. I had to make some adjustments to maximize your experience. Luckily, Cas’s mind is very malleable. He’s weak, and I’m powerful beyond imagining. I can do whatever I want with him.”

“Let him down,” Dean tried to speak firmly, but he trembled. Blood from the lashes on Cas’s back and the holes from his wings and a hundred other wounds dripped onto the floor. He couldn’t stop imagining how Cas got there. What else they’d done to him.

“Let him down?” Godstiel appeared, approaching Dean. “He’s atoning for unspeakable crimes. He’ll be here forever. And now you’re stuck here with us. Don’t worry, Dean, I can’t hurt you and he can’t die. But I can make you watch.”

With a wave of his hand, Godstiel made Cas’s wings tear through the hooks. Cas fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Dean couldn’t hold back his cry. 

“You taught him choice and free will. Look where it got him.”

Dean tried to run to Cas, but Godstiel had magicked him in place. With just his glare, Godstiel had Cas writhing and seizing on the floor. If Dean could break through by sheer force of will….but he couldn’t.

“But I am merciful. I give him a choice, every day. I ask him if he would like to return to Earth, powerless, of course, but into your possibly welcoming arms. And he almost chooses yes. But then I remind him of what he’s done. How much he has to atone for. And he chooses to stay.”

Godstiel swiped his hand in Castiel’s direction, tearing feathers out of Cas’s wings and making him convulse. 

“I made special arrangements to give you those history lessons. Do you see how much trouble Cas has caused his family, even before you? And that was just to give you an idea. There were countless more times we had to teach him not to disobey--” a clench of Godstiel’s hand, and another anguished cry from Cas. “--not to intervene when we told him not to. We punished him and punished him. Reprogrammed him. Tried to make him right. And then you came along, and he stepped farther away from us than he ever had.

“Who are you to question his decisions when you’re the one who taught him to love choice and hate himself? Live with your choices as Castiel lives with his.”

WIth another clench of his fist, Godstiel lifted Cas’s heart clear out of his chest. It broke through his pale flesh, painting it with dripping blood. Dean screamed and fell to his knees, the only direction he was allowed to move. Tears blurred his vision so that he barely even saw Godstiel cram the heart back into Cas, who awoke with a sickening, choking gasp. Godstiel grabbed Cas by his hair, pulling him to his knees and conjuring a sword to his throat.

“You’re used to seeing him die over and over again. He always disguised his death wish as strategy or sacrifice, and you were always so willing to let him go. But this just seems wasteful, doesn’t it?”

Dean saw the sword behind Godstiel the second before Godstiel sensed it. Again, it was Castiel to the rescue. Dean had to give the guy credit if not for timing and tenacity, then for coming through, at all.

Godstiel used the sword that was meant for Cas to parry Castiel’s blow. He tried to stab Castiel, but Castiel dodged, and then they were moving so fast that Dean couldn’t keep track. He didn’t have time to marvel at the sword fight; with Godstiel distracted and Castiel leading him away, the spell broke and he made a beeline for Cas’s crumpled form.

Dean tried to be careful as he gathered the broken body. Cas didn’t sink into Dean’s arms in resigned comfort, like future Cas did. He didn’t push into Dean like he was trying to burrow into Dean’s warmth, like crazy Cas did. He just lay in Dean’s arms, still and limp. Dean held him as close as possible, wrapping himself completely around Cas’s body. 

“He’s not gonna hurt you,” Dean muttered into Cas’s hair, rocking him back and forth, because Cas was in his arms right now, no different than a corpse, and Dean didn’t know what to do.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the fight. He couldn’t tell the difference between Castiel or Godstiel. They were too far away and, besides, they were identical, but Dean had to make sure that Castiel was still in the fight, keeping danger away from Cas. The fight seemed to go on forever. Castiel could not have been a match for Godstiel. Castiel, a mid-ranking angel who, despite being a tough son of a bitch, was still not a god, and Godstiel, a ruthless, all-powerful bastard, who would stop at nothing to destroy. Dean was surprised the fight went on as long as it did. But, Dean reminded himself, Castiel--Cas--was stronger than his enemies; and if not stronger, then more clever; and if not more clever, then tougher, more resilient, more something--than any of their enemies, even if that enemy was himself on a power trip.

Then there was a flash of light. Dean buried his face in Cas’s hair, pressing Cas’s face to his shoulder, just in case Cas opened his eyes and the light blinded him. Just in case Cas opened his eyes.

He was too afraid to look at who won. If it was Godstiel, Dean prepared himself. He wouldn’t let him have Cas back, not without a fight. Subconsciously, he clutched Cas even more tightly.

“Dean.”

Dean looked up. Standing in front of him was the victor.

“You came,” Dean choked out, not even trying to temper his gratitude and admiration. “Again.”

“I always come through in a pinch,” Castiel said, with a slight smile.

Dean chuckled, smoothing Cas’s hair back. “You do.”

He stared lovingly down at Cas, moving his hand to caress his cheek. Cas was still cold and corpse-like, but Godstiel had to be the final boss, right? They weren’t out of the woods, but they were at least on their way.

Castiel crouched down and shrugged off his trenchcoat. With surprising tenderness, he tucked it around Cas. 

“We have to convince him to come back with you. It has to be his choice,” Castiel explained, calmly and quietly. Then, he placed two fingers on Cas’s forehead. Cas gasped awake again. 

“Shh, shh,” Dean soothed. “Hey. You’re safe now.”

“Dean?” His voice was hoarser than usual. He sounded wrecked and weak, shifting his bloodshot eyes to Castiel.

“Hello, Cas.” Castiel said,

“What--who?” 

Dean realized that waking up to a doppleganger, after being tortured by a different doppleganger, would be a shock to anyone, and he tried to calm his friend, placing a warm, firm hand on his cheek and stroking his jawline.

“That’s Castiel. We came to save you. I’ll explain later, OK? But we gotta get you home first.”

“Home?”

“Cas, I need your permission to send you back to Earth to stay with the Winchesters.” Castiel’s voice was firm and clear. It seemed to bring Cas back to reality as much as he could. “Do you want to go?”

Cas looked at Dean for confirmation, still confused. Dean grabbed his hand and gave it a little squeeze. 

“Please say yes,” Dean whispered.

“O--OK.”

“I’m going to make you sleep now, Cas. When you wake up, you’ll be in the Men of Letters bunker with Sam and Dean.”

Cas nodded, letting Castiel cup his face. Instantly, he was asleep in Dean’s arms.

“He won’t be…” Castiel swallowed. “You’ll need to take care of him when you get back.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“You should hold him. He likes that.” He spoke slowly, as if he might cut himself off at any point in the sentence. Dean could hear how difficult it was for Cas to get those words out, how voicing Cas’s human needs was like voicing his own. Human needs he was ashamed of.

“C’mere,” Dean said, holding one of his arms out. He was reluctant to let Cas go, so he pulled Castiel into an awkward group hug: Castiel, rigid and soldierly, never been hugged before, and Cas, limp and unconscious, cradled in Dean’s arms.

“Would you like to go back now?” Castiel asked. 

“Yeah. Think we should. You take care of yourself, OK?”

“I cease to exist when you leave,” Castiel reminded Dean. How could I forget his trademark literalness, Dean thought. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

He put one hand on Dean’s forehead and then smoothed Cas’s hair back before settling his hand on his forehead.


	8. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! Reviews are much appreciated! But even if you read and don't review, thank you!

Dean materialized in the main room of the bunker, holding Cas Pieta-style. He was thrown off because he remembered, distantly, that he had passed out in his bed, but he was too overwhelmed to think about it. He barely even noticed Sam in the room.

“You got him!” Sam exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Dean grunted, suddenly exhausted. Sam must have heard the tiredness in Dean’s voice, because he gathered Cas up in a bridal carry and moved him to a spare room. Dean almost grabbed at Cas in a fit of possessiveness, but reminded himself it was Sam, Sam wouldn’t hurt Cas. He felt torn: relieved that Sam was strong enough to lift Cas, but alarmed that Cas was so easy to lift.

He followed behind, pulling the blanket back so that Sam could set Cas down. Sam was chattering about how scared he’d been--how Dean had disappeared from the bed and how Sam didn’t know what to expect, how Kevin told him not to worry and then went to bed. But Dean was only half-listening. He realized that Cas was naked except for the trenchcoat wrapped around his shoulders and some tattered rags, the remnants of his clothes.

“I have to get him something to wear,” Dean said.

“You look like shit. Stay here. Sit down. I’ll get them.”

Dean sighed, sinking into the chair by Cas’s bed. Sam came back with a shirt and boxers that would have been too big on Cas before and would probably drown him now.

“How long was I gone?”

“Couple of hours, actually. Why? How long did it seem there?”

“I don’t think time was even a thing there,” Dean said. He trusted Sam to slip the clothes on Cas, but Cas was completely out of it and had to be handled like an ungainly doll, so Dean helped. They laid Cas back down on his side and tucked him in again.

“What was it like?”

“Don’t wanna get into it right now. Turns out his head? Not a pleasant place.”

“Is he going to be OK?” Sam looked at Cas with such concern that Dean thought Sam would jump into full mothering Cas mode, crawl into bed and hold Cas.

Dean shrugged. “You know Cas,” which meant either ‘Of course he will’ or ‘Probably not’ or both.

“Alright,” Sam nodded. “I’m uh, gonna go clean up. You need anything…”

“I’m good.” Dean nodded, thankful that Sam read his need for privacy.

As soon as Sam left, Dean slid next to Cas, settling him in his arms. It was good to know that Cas was merely resting, not close to death, and that when he woke up, he’d be safe in the bunker. He even felt warmer now and regained some color. Safe, and knowing Cas was too, Dean drifted off.

 

He awoke later, mouth uncomfortably dry. Dean wandered to the kitchen to find Sam poring over books--leisure reading, not research.

“Hey. Sleep well?” Sam teased.

“If you took any pictures, you’re gonna have to find a new phone.”

“I didn’t take any.”

“Good,” Dean said, between chugging two cups of water.

“Kevin did.”

Dean huffed, but didn’t pursue the issue. He refilled the cup again and returned to Cas’s room. To his surprise, Cas’ bleary eyes were half opened.

“Hey. Hey, buddy,” Dean said, walking over to the side of his bed and smoothing Cas’ hair. Cas tried to say ‘hi,’ but his throat was too dry. Dean put the water to his lips. “How you feeling?”

“Weak. Disoriented.” Cas said. The water helped, but barely. “I feel better, though. And it’s nice knowing that I’m...not there anymore.”

Dean stared at his friend, lying vulnerable in bed, and thought about all the things he’d been through. 

“Cas, when I was in your head, I saw a lot of things. And I never realized how much...”

“I know. It was my head.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah. Right. But if you wanna talk about it--”

“Not now,” Castiel said, quietly. Dean sprung to much on him, too soon, and mentally scolded himself. He sat next to Cas silently, holding his hand. Part of him was relieved that apparently Cas knew everything that went on, but another part of him was too exhausted to think about those implications. 

“Will you lie next to me?” Cas asked after a while.

Dean hesitated at first, then shrugged. Why not? Kevin already had the pictures. The experience had softened him; he didn’t know how long it would last, but right now, if Cas asked him to do anything, he would.

“I used to do this for Sammy when he was a kid,” Dean said, shifting with Cas so they were both comfortable. “Not that you’re a kid, I mean--”

“Shh, it’s OK. A lot of what they said to you was unfair.” Dean didn’t have to ask what Cas meant. “Will you stay?”

“Of course. Will you?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Cas murmurred. It wasn’t exactly the thing wanted to hear, but he supposed he asked a question Cas didn’t want to hear, too. “If I did, though,” Cas said the next words in a tired whisper, “even if I did, I would.”


End file.
